#chiara garcia

She comes out at this time most often. She first decides to play her favourite Bon Iver piece, and then she unfolds her swelling heart synchronously as she opens her palms to type at the same time.

She had a specific awe for writing and expressing. Being lost in the vastness of unceasing words and in the boundless limits of literature was her favourite avocation. It kept her alive, kept her sane. It was the only time when she could be so genuinely genuine, truly true, sincerely sincere with herself.

Oh the wonders of the heart, the fingers, and the eyes - parts working together in union; discerning the unerring second of the day to lay bare verities only one could speak of when alone, when one is separated from the life and the people that held her so fiercely coerced.

his mouth tastes of mixed cigarettes and vomit and i’m pretty sure it tastes of hate too. i feel like i can read his mind whenever we kissed. like his tongue were carved with lines and patterns my own can trace and i just knew. his first love was when he was five, he feels uncomfortable when another’s skin touches his and i knew sometimes he wishes he can go back in time, in his boyhood neighborhood, eating fallen mangoes and learning how to whistle. he tells me stories sometimes when we wake. he tells me a lot about his mum. they were barely together. she had worked in another town but went home as much as she could. thrice a year at most. they loved the woods as much as they adored each other. there was one spring time filled with snowfall and all of it was magical. they’d forget the ground sometimes, their head perched high up towards the heavens until their necks grew tired. ‘i don’t know when i stopped dreaming in colors’ he tells me and he holds me closer. i loved it when he did. it always felt like he was afraid to lose me. some moments there is an overflow of words shared, most of the time there is contentment in silent stares and idyllic days. i fall asleep once and wake up to poetry marked on the back of my neck running down until the dimples of by my spine. ‘you are in another world as you sleep but this too feels like only a vivid dream. you and i, bodies clasped like siamese twins fated to be together. you are peace. this is truth.’

Because they say we only know what we got until it’s gone, but we do know. What we’ve got when we have it right on our very palms? We do. But even when we do (no matter how many times we read it to memorization, remind ourselves) we only really know the trueness of the mantra until we actually lose something so dangerously, irrevocably important to us. Not because we didn’t know it was ours when it was, but only because we didn’t understand the entirety of the situation - that so much of ourselves were once so immensely absorbed in something/someone we never wanted (although truthfully expected) to come to an end/leave in the first  place.

But every story has an ending, and we know that as well.